


In Which Rose Is Really Gay

by frenchifries



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Sex, F/F, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchifries/pseuds/frenchifries
Summary: When you see her like this, prone and beautiful and sprawled on your bed—it's enough to make your poor gay brain stutter to an inelegant halt.
orRose gets out of her head by getting some really good head.





	

Everything about her is lovely.

It’s the delicate firmness of her back, rising and dipping with each vertebra, alien plating and musculature shifting under velvet skin; the broad strength of her shoulders and arms, embracing you, protecting you; the precious curve from ribcage to waist to hip, a perfect sine wave you want to curl up against, to touch and hold and wrap around.

Everything about her makes you want to touch, with more than just your hands. That was one of the first, most marked differences you noticed: trolls touch with their whole bodies—when they feel safe to, at least. With foreheads, noses, necks, torsos, legs. It’s alien, and animal, and the most natural thing you’ve ever felt.

So when you see her like this, prone and beautiful and sprawled on your bed in that slinky green dress you love so much on her—dark lips glossy and parted to expose teeth that could destroy you, chest pressing insistently against tight fabric with each breath, skirt hiked up just enough to expose a sliver of moon-bright thigh—it’s enough to make your poor gay brain stutter to an inelegant halt.

“You are too much for me,” you say, breathless, and drape yourself alongside her. You slot your face between her shoulder and chin, twine one leg with hers, skim a hand up her side, card your fingers through her hair and around the edges of her hornbed. A tiny half-gasp, half-laugh escapes her lips.

“Please,” she says in that almost-sarcastic way you know she’s been practicing. “I didn’t realize ‘too much’ was in the vocabulary of Rose Lalonde.”

You dig a fingernail into the ridged base of her horn. Her smirk is quickly exchanged for a lip held tight in the vise grip of fangs, eyes fluttering shut.

“My dear, I was sure you’d learned by now that my vocabulary is immeasurably vast.” You brush your lips against her ear. She shivers. “Or do we need to have that lesson again?”

A laugh, low and melodic, and you feel more than hear it resonate from her chest to yours. She turns to brush her nose against yours, tangle a hand in the back of your hair, eyes darkened and earnest. You do so enjoy these games the two of you play, the constant calculated waltz of wits… but the times when you get to cast away the games, let all familiar barriers of snark and pretension give way to straightforward honest desire, a meeting of two bodies, two beings, in want of nothing but the touch and taste and sound of each other…

Yes, you think as you smear black lipstick across Kanaya’s cheek. These are the times you like best.

And then it’s your lips against hers, soft flesh given unknown strength in passion; your tongue— _her_ tongue, _god_ yes, holding you fast, drinking you in, tasting your insides (and _oh_ , how much of her you want to taste); her hand, kneading into the small of your back, claws catching the fabric of your top and neither of you much caring; your hand, following the curve of her waist, the curve of her ribs, the curve of her breasts—everything about her is arches and curves and beautiful, so beautiful, so radiant and dark and dangerous and soft.

Your fingers, teasing along her horn enough to disorient, circling the base and spiraling out into dense black curls, back in to a ridged golden extrusion of pure perfection, an undulation not unlike those below—out and in and out again, welcoming and sweet if not for the violent point that ends it all—but you’ve never had a problem with that sort of thing, have you; her fingers, lacing through your hair, combing and curling and tangling and pulling, _yes_ you hear yourself gasp and she pulls again, pulls harder, if only you had horns of your own so she could pull on those, too, pull you right into her.

Thighs pressing against one another, every movement pushing that tantalizing skirt another millimeter higher. You wish you were out of these leggings already if for no other reason than to feel her skin—supple as mothwing, tougher than armor—her pulse, her energy that radiates and crackles and seems to distort the space around you until all you can think is the feel of her, bare and unguarded, against your own raw self, stripped of defenses, and—

_oh_

that’s

her palm, blazing a line of fire up under your shirt, pushing the offending fabric out of the way and what else is one to do but oblige? So off it comes, leaving your hair staticky and mussed and she laughs, giggles really, and you press your forehead to hers and laugh and kiss her nose because why the fuck not. Her hands do their best to smooth your flyaway strands.

The motion shifts her chest closer to yours, and you are acutely aware of the fact that she’s still in that damned dress—gorgeous though it is on her, you much prefer it _off_ , to be frank. You toy at the straps, push them down her shoulders slowly, achingly slow, and there’s a throb somewhere in your core (and your groin, who are you kidding). Carefully, leisurely, savoring the sight and feel of it, the sound of her hitching breath, you drag the fabric down her front, exposing just the top of her cleavage at first—she’s not wearing a bra, there’s another throb, oh jesus shitting christ this girl is going to kill you—and then, as deliberately as your shaking hands can manage, inch the dress down… down… a little further… until those perfect breasts are free and.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, reverent. You shove your face into their welcoming heat and grin and kiss against the yielding flesh.

She gasps, giggles again, “ _Rose!_ ” in that adorable mock-accusatory tone of hers, pressing her nose into your hair, stroking and massaging at your back.

You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t your favorite part. You rub against her chest like a needy kitten, can’t get enough of this softness. Soft, her whole body is soft, smooth and covered in fine downy hairs. But it’s a softness stretched over firm muscles and cartilaginous protection, claws and teeth and horns that could gouge and gore and kill, and while you would normally love to ruminate on the intricacies of xenobiology, you truly could not give less of a fuck than when you’re face-deep in your girlfriend’s tits.

While your mind is focused on appreciating this absolute heaven, your hands are working that dress the rest of the way off; she helpfully extricates her legs and neatly shucks the garment off to the side.

“Mm, much as I wish I could stay here forever,” you sigh against her sternum, and don’t even bother finishing the thought before capturing her lips with yours. She smiles into the kiss, plays at your lower lip with her fangs. You gasp, and she takes the opportunity to slip her tongue inside, pull it back out, lick at your lips and teeth and plant small dark kisses all around your mouth. You’ve probably both smeared lipstick all over one another; you really should think these things through better, but—no, that’s the point of this. To turn off your brain. No thoughts, no words, just _being_ and _feeling_ each other, just…

“Stop thinking,” she murmurs against your lips. It’s low, husky, irresistible. “I can see your pan sparking from here.”

Already you can feel your brain pulling, reaching for a clever response and it takes all your willpower to just. _Shut up. Shut it down. Stop._

You wrench your eyes shut, shake your head. Why are you like this. How hard can it be? Dave has hardly thought before speaking a day in his life. Surely you can… just…

She paps you.

“Rose.”

“I’m trying.” It almost comes out as a whine. “Believe me, I am, I don’t know what—”

She seals your lips with hers, hooks her fingers in your waistband and _yanks_ ,

“Oh!”

pulls your leggings off and rolls you both over in one fluid motion, and you’re…

Static. Buzzing. Icy hot. Lips pressing down your jaw, your neck. Teeth and tongue sucking, licking. Fangs pressing, threatening, dangerous. She won’t, not if you don’t offer, but she _could_ , oh _god_ she could do anything, she, she—

She keeps going, down, down, trailing more kisses: clavicle, sternum, diaphragm, navel, the top of your

“ _Fuck!_ ” A shuddering breath.

Nose rubbing gently, slowly, nuzzling down the front of your panties, oh sweet horrorterrors, closer, closer still. Cheek pillowed on your thigh, a kiss, a tongue lapping and sucking at that spot with the stretch marks that look like scars, red and raw and _shit!_

Breath gusting over that hot slick dampness, lips offering the slightest relief through fabric, the subtlest pressure, questioning.

“ _Yesss,_ ” you hiss. Hands twist in her hair, squeeze at the back of her neck. Her tongue, long and languid, presses flat and firm, “ _Ah_ , Kanaya, yes, _please!_ ” Nearly breathless, chest heaving, you want her to… fuck, you just want _her_.

She takes the encouragement for what it is, rubs her face wholly against the growing damp spot, that has _no right_ to be as sexy as it is.

“Please,” you say again, a barely-audible whimper. She smiles against you, hums agreeably, and even that slight vibration is enough to send every muscle in your body into spasms.

Her hands grip your waist, almost ticklish in their tenderness, as she licks a stripe “Right there, _ffffuck_ , right there!”

“Hmm,” she mumbles softly. “You are still entirely too coherent.” Gently, carefully, she traces the pads of her fingers up the inner seam of your underwear, toys at the waistband. “What do you think? Shall we get you out of these?”

“Mmmyeah, yes, please,” you slur, utterly uncomposed, but perhaps if you can even still form words, she hasn’t done her job right.

“Ah, and here I thought I was being presumptuous.”

With dexterous hands, she pulls the inconvenient fabric out of the way and there she is, face nestled in the crook of your thigh, warmth and light radiating against your bare skin, oh _goodness_ how did you get so fucking lucky.

Tangling your fingers in her curls, you muster what remains of your higher brain function to breathe out:

“Don’t go easy on me.”

Slow, she always starts slow, but you want—faster, more, just _her_ , just Kanaya, _Kanaya_ , are you saying that out loud, you hope you are. _Kanaya I want you, Kanaya I need you, Kanaya I love you more than you know,_ but it’s all running so fast and blurry and you can’t stop long enough to piece the thoughts together and there are flames licking at your limbs, at your core, you quiver and quake with everything she does.

The pressure of her hands on your hips, fingers gripping tight and strong and safe. The teasing solidity of her torso against your legs, there and then not, seemingly phasing in and out of existence, or just your scattered perception. The heat of her mouth covering you, engulfing you in feelings you never thought you were allowed to have—

_(you’re eight and crushes sound pretty fake to you but the other girls are asking which boy you think is cute so you pick one at random—)_

_(you’re ten and spending just a little too long looking at the lingerie ads in a catalog your mother left out—)_

_(you’re eleven and poring over a book in a dark corner of the library, furtively rereading the scene where the girls kiss under a tree, you didn’t even know they could write such things in books—)_

_(you’re twelve and wondering what that would be like, to kiss someone, to kiss a girl, and you go back to that spot in the library again and again and wonder—)_

and your heart is pounding, pounding, your throat raw—have you been shouting?—and the blood thrumming in your fingertips reminds you that she’s there, right there, kissing and licking into and around and you feel so full, nearly bursting, if she hooked that claw just wrong you’re sure your insides would come spilling out but you could never be empty with her right there, pouring starlight from her lips and skin, filling you up in every way possible…

If you weren’t shouting before, you certainly are now. Everything is fluttery and alive with something dark and fragile and it’s like being in that library corner again, terrified you’re doing something bad and someone will catch you, but. But the softness of her touch and the sweetness of her voice reassures you,

“I’m right here, what do you need?”

You catch her hand in yours and squeeze. She brushes her lips across your knuckles, and it wrests out a strained cry mingled with laughter, a twisted sound, and you can’t do much but shake your head and gesture for her to get up here.

“It’s okay,” she’s soothing and smoothing her hands through your hair, kissing your jaw and temple, and it’s only then that you notice the tears that have been spilling out for what feels like a while. “I’m sorry. We can stop for now.”

You try remembering how to move your tongue properly through the static in your brain.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” you say, slow and careful, making sure your mouth is making the sounds you think it is. (God it feels like you’ve been gargling sand.) “That was perfect. You were perfect.” It’s true; your body still feels alight, gelatinous legs and curling toes.

She nuzzles your cheek, sighs a cool breath against the corner of your mouth.

“Kanaya.” You hold the side of her face, brushing a thumb under her eye. Her lids flutter shut, dark lashes fanning across her cheek. “I hate to call it a night already, but.”

You press the heel of your free hand between your eyes. Feels like a fucking hangover. Or maybe just a dehydration headache. This is the worst. There was still so much to do! You didn’t even get to ravish her like you wanted to—

“Alright,” she says, and kisses your eyelids. “I apologize if I was too… harsh.”

You laugh, about as much as you can at the moment, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You gave me exactly what I asked for. I’m only sorry I couldn’t return the favor.”

“Hush,” is all she says before maneuvering the covers over you. “That is not important.”

You curl yourself as best you can against the parenthesis of her body. (If she’s a parenthesis then you’re, what, a comma?) She pets your hair and back, breath syncing with yours. She’s whispering something, but it’s too low for you to decipher in your current state. You settle for being soothed by the sound of it alone.

You’re not far off from sleep when you feel the need to say, “Kanaya?”

“Hmm?”

“You absolutely fucking wrecked me.”

She almost chokes from how hard she snort-laughs.

“Get some rest, Rose.”

She’s an angel, you think. An angel who was just destroying you with the mouth she is now using to kiss you to sleep. Tender and sharp and filthy and sweet. Yeah, she’s pretty god-damned perfect.


End file.
